


dimmed lights

by boom_slap



Series: Unlikely Alliances [4]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Foreplay, Hand Jobs, I promise it's fluff, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Suicidal Ideation, first time anal for my boys!!!, if you ask Andrés, if you ask Martín, sgsgs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29381259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: It doesn't happen right away.It seems like it will, when Martín nearly falls in his haste to get into Andrés' arms, to kiss him again and again after that goodnight peck.Or: yet ANOTHER missing scene from UA
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Unlikely Alliances [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014189
Comments: 15
Kudos: 56





	dimmed lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marirable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marirable/gifts).



> I've become a one trick horse and my friends encourage it

It doesn't happen right away.

It seems like it will, when Martín nearly _falls_ in his haste to get into Andrés' arms, to kiss him again and again after that goodnight peck.

It's not even about Andrés' soft, warm lips, or about his tongue flicking over where his teeth have nipped; it's more about being in his embrace, being held and accepted and forgiven.

Still, as they make their way to Andrés' room and fall onto his bed, Martín tries and tries to apologize with his kisses over and over again. He straddles Andrés' waist, takes his face in his hands and nearly whines in desperation, kissing him like it's the most important task in his life.

Maybe it is.

Objectively, Martín knows they've both fucked up in their respective ways. He knows that Andrés was not fair in his reaction, but - here's the decidedly fucked-up part - he's slowly realizing that Andrés got emotional, that he got angry and disappointed and cruel because he _cared._ Because he cares about Martín.

Martín cares right back, he cares so much he feels like he's going to burst with it, with all the love he'd been carefully keeping tucked away, now spilling over.

It's out there in the open and he already knows what it feels like to be left alone and cold, and he can't let it happen, not again, never again, he can't, he wouldn't survive, he would suffocate and wither away and jump off a roof or under a bus or-

He's not kissing Andrés anymore. He's sobbing right into his neck, with Andrés' hand so warm against the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he babbles, not sure if he's apologizing for breaking down or for everything that has happened. "I'm so sorry, Andrés, _Andrés-_ "

"It's okay," Andrés says in a tone that Martín has never heard, not that low, not that soft.

Then, after a beat:

"We're okay."

Andrés has always had a way with words. He knows the difference between the two phrases.

 _It's okay_ means _I'm well, I'm not angry or sad._

 _We're okay_ means _I don't hate you, you're forgiven, we're even._

It should calm Martín down. Instead, another sob tears its way out of his throat.

He had wanted to show Andrés a good time. He had wanted to give himself over. He had shyly dreamed of getting railed all the way into tomorrow.

Instead, he's sniffling like a damn baby, hysteric like one of Andrés' exes. He's failing. Already.

"Fuck," he mutters, trying to take deep breaths, because that's what Andrés is going to tell him to do anyway, and he's going to be right. "I don't even know why, I just-... Ew, _fuck_ , I'm being such a pussy."

He's surprised when beneath him, Andrés' chest rumbles with laughter and it's kind of unfair how deep both his voice and laughter are, what with Martín sounding like he has constant allergies.

"You're not crying because of heartbreak though, Martín, are you?" Andrés asks and that motherfucker has no right to sound so smart, so mature. "Why are you crying?"

Martín frowns for a moment before wiping away at his cheeks.

"Relief," he admits quietly.

"Good," Andrés says. "I'm relieved too."

And so, they end up not fucking that first night, which Martín would consider a huge disappointment if it weren't for the following arguments:

One, he ended up getting cuddled. He ended up getting all cuddled up and he would never admit to anyone that he loved it and that he needed it, but Andrés is a naturally affectionate person and so, it just- it just happened.

Two, Martín is lowkey terrified. That first time they hooked up? He was _drunk_. He had been _brainwashed_ by Sergio Marquina, the literal teenage devil.

Moreover, they hadn't gone all the way. Who doesn't like a blowjob? And sure, yes, Andrés' fingers had been in his ass, but Andrés had been drunk, too. Maybe more so than Martín had thought.

Martín knows a lot about sex, but he's terrified because what if somehow, Andrés ends up not liking it?

He reflects upon that in the morning, Andrés still snoring lightly next to his ear as Martín stares straight into a wall with wide eyes, silently panicking.

He doesn't really want to leave the bed, but he thinks that maybe, since he's woken up early for once, he could make breakfast. He could go and try to be a good- boyfriend? Are they boyfriends now? Had they been boyfriends already, for half a day, and then exes, and now boyfriends again?

Either way, Martín decides to make breakfast. As he moves to get up, however, Andrés' arm suddenly tightens around his waist. Their bodies shift a little and then Martín feels something poking into his side.

Andrés is hard.

Okay.

Okay wow.

He can-

He can work with that, can't he?

He relaxes back into the embrace and nuzzles Andrés' neck.

"Mmm…"

"Andrés?"

"Good morning."

Martín grins, bashful. Such fine manners, making sure to greet him properly. He could get used to it.

Andrés' hand finds its way into Martín's hair and that's all the encouragement Martín needs to start pressing kisses along his throat, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin.

Andrés sighs, content, and lets his head fall back.

After a moment, Martín pulls back to look at him. There's a teasing glint in Andrés' eyes as he stares back and so, Martín gives him a smile and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"Can I suck you off?"

"Since you're asking so nicely."

 _Yes._ Martín presses another peck to the side of Andrés' mouth and dives right under the covers.

It's hot under the covers and admittedly a bit stuffy, but he doesn't care. There's something so arousing about pleasuring Andrés like that, it's like offering a service, like being used. Frankly, Martín loves the idea.

He only pulls Andrés' sweatpants and underwear down enough to free his cock, hard and throbbing and- well, isn't it a _nice_ cock, one that'd surely stretch him out nicely and fill him up good.

Andrés has dark body hair over his chest and abdomen and groin, and Martín loves it. He nuzzles against it, his tongue poking out to lap at the base of Andrés' cock, burning hot.

He takes it into his mouth when he feels Andrés' hand at the back of his head, stroking gently, appreciatively.

Martín sucks for a moment, letting out a quiet hum as he does, feeling Andrés' legs shift under his arm. He pulls back, then, to lick the precome off the tip of Andrés' dick only to take it right back into his mouth again.

It feels so _good,_ as if nothing else exists in the world in that moment. As if Martín's only purpose is to pleasure Andrés.

He sighs through his nose, closing his eyes and letting his head rest against Andrés' hip bone.

A few seconds go by and then there's a shift, a shuffle and a cold touch of fresh air.

Martín opens his eyes to look up at Andrés who's pulled himself up onto his elbows and dragged the cover down to reveal Martín basically-

Basically just relaxing with a dick in his mouth, as one does.

Andrés is grinning down at him, his eyes bright. There's a kind of wonder in his expression that makes Martín want to purr.

The hand at the back of his head closes itself into a fist, a few strands of hair trapped in-between the fingers, and Martín doesn't break eye contact as he gives a small nod.

The pull is heavenly.

Now, Martín has to think even _less,_ because Andrés is guiding his head, choosing the angle and depth at which Martín takes his cock. It slides in and out of his mouth easily, touching the back of his throat at times.

The sounds are quiet, muffled, but obscene.

Andrés' back arches off the bed when he comes, a groan escaping his lips, warmth and bitterness filling Martín's mouth. He swallows around it and decides _not_ to pull away, instead waiting for Andrés to come down from his high. He gets rewarded for it - Andrés laughs breathily and scratches at the nape of his neck.

Martín makes sure to lick every last drop of come off Andrés' cock before he climbs back up on the bed, crawling up Andrés' body, really, because there isn't enough space. Not that there's any need for more space.

He's feeling dizzy and it makes him brave.

"I want you to fuck me," he murmurs.

Andrés' gaze darkens. He pulls Martín closer to him.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll scream yourself hoarse."

Martín shivers. Andrés moves to sit up, then, disentangling their limbs. He pokes Martín's side.

"Come on, turn around, back against my chest."

It feels a bit awkward, but Martín does as he's told, he rearranges himself and leans back against Andrés, twisting his head to look at him.

"What- _Fuck!_ "

Somehow, he forgot he was hard, too. Somehow, he hadn't thought that Andrés would slide his hand into his boxers and squeeze his cock.

"Try to be quiet, will you?" Andrés whispers into his ear, but that's a _no_ from Martín, there's no way, because Andrés is stroking him, and Martín looks down to see the movement beneath the fabric of his underwear, and it's way too fucking hot to be quiet about it.

Andrés' other hand covers Martín's mouth.

He _whines_ , not because it causes him any discomfort, but because he likes the idea of Andrés controlling him, of Andrés holding him down, of Andrés-

"Next time, I _will_ be listening to all the sounds you make."

And just like that, Martín tenses, he moans against Andrés' palm and reaches back to touch him, to ground himself, because he's coming _hard._

It should be impossible to get this much pleasure from a handjob, but Martín is nearly shaking, just because it's Andrés.

It's Andrés who's put his hand right into Martín's underwear. Without shame, without hesitation.

Still, Martín, being _sober_ this time, is careful. He doesn't dive in for a kiss no matter how much he craves it. Not with his morning breath, not right after he's sucked Andrés' dick like his life depended on it.

Instead, he gives himself a moment to breathe and then reaches for Andrés' hand to lick it clean.

Andrés presses a kiss to his temple.

Then, they hear the kettle whistling in the kitchen.

"Oh. Sergio is awake."

Martín feels hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest. He'd forgotten. He'd completely forgotten what an asshole of a brotherly figure he is. Then again, Andrés must have remembered - hence the effort to keep quiet - which makes him a bigger asshole.

They pull themselves together, Andrés offering Martín a pair of briefs as Martín uses his own underwear to clean himself up because, well, he doesn't really feel like walking out of the bedroom with a stain on his boxers.

Then they head to the kitchen.

Sergio gives them a look that says it all.

Martín loves Sergio, he really, truly does love the fucker, but by the end of the day, he's ready to murder him.

Sergio is home.

One would think that a smart kid like him would have thought of maybe leaving them alone, at least for one night. Out of respect. Out of love. Out of pity, if nothing else.

But no.

Sergio is reading on the couch.

Martín is going to strangle him.

"How is Raquel?"

"Good, thank you."

 _You fucking bitch,_ Martín thinks.

Worst of all, Andrés seems unaffected. He's at the kitchen table, making a shopping list, domestic as fuck, apparently disinterested in the prospect of fucking Martín.

Apparently disinterested in Martín.

In Martín's mind, _apparently_ becomes _probably_ becomes _clearly_ and he wonders if he'd fucked up, or rather: how he'd fucked up. Everything had seemed perfectly fine for the whole day.

Somehow, it isn't fine now, but Martín knows he's not exactly in the position to be making demands and he slips away to his own room.

The mattress had always served him as a reminder that nothing is promised. At the same time, it was comforting, this little place of his.

It's still better than crashing at Ágata's place, but it can't compare to sleeping in Andrés' bed.

So, Martín tries to remind himself that this is _fine_ , but it takes him an awful lot of time to fall asleep.

He's surprised when he wakes up to a pair of arms wrapping him up in an embrace. No, not surprised. Choked up.

"Andrés?"

"Why are you being an idiot?"

Now that's just _offensive._

"I'm not, I just thought- Maybe you didn't-"

Andrés huffs right behind his ear, shifting his weight so that he nearly covers Martín with his body.

"You have to trust me," Andrés mutters. "With your heart, I mean. Remember? It's important to me."

Martín is speechless. He just reaches for Andrés' hand and _squeezes._

The next day, Martín has classes and work. By all means, he's not happy about it. He wants to spend time with Andrés. Too see how they- how it- how it all works.

Not that Martín has never dated, but all of his relationships have been brief, meaningless. And there weren't even that many to begin with.

With Andrés, it's different. They know each other so well.

**To: Andrés ;))**

_Im so boreddd_

**From: Andrés ;))**

_I would come over, but I can't 🙏_

Martín feels his lips draw into a thin line. What is he doing? Does he not want to see him? Is he hooking up with Beatriz? Is he-

The last idea is not even the worst one, Martín realizes. No. The worst one is the idea that Andrés would not want to see Martín. That he would put a distance between them, that he would ignore him and slowly slip away from him, leave him; that he would get sick of Martín and discard him like a useless piece of-

His phone buzzes again.

**From: Andrés ;))**

_Trust me._

"Martín?" Mirko walks up to him and puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Martín nods, putting the phone back into the pocket of his apron. "Yeah, I am."

On his way out of work, he takes four leftover slices of their chocolate tart, putting them in a small pastry takeout box. The weather is cold and nasty as he heads home and he hopes that Andrés is there.

Their apartment welcomes him with a burst of warmth and an amazing smell of something spicy.

"Oh my god," he manages weakly when he steps into the kitchen and sees Andrés standing next to the stove, an apron wrapped around his middle, making him look ridiculously hot.

The table is set.

For two.

Martín is so glad for the lack of candles or flowers, because he would've died from embarrassment. Still, he feels the tips of his ears burning up.

Andrés flashes him a grin and turns down the flame under one of the pans. He steps closer to Martín and wraps both arms around his waist. Martín's entire world immediately narrows down to Andrés.

"Raquel was busy last night, but tonight, we have the flat to ourselves. Until at least late afternoon tomorrow, Sergio said."

What a gift Sergio is. What an absolute darling.

Andrés looks down at the box in Martín's hands and his grin widens.

"I see you've brought dessert, how perfect," he purrs and kisses him. The chocolate tart is probably not melting yet but Martín definitely is.

Andrés kisses him like he's tasting him.

"I've made curry," he says against Martín's mouth. "Very tasty, if I were to judge. Chili flakes, shrimp, coriander…"

Martín can't stop the smile from stretching across his face.

"Did you google 'common aphrodisiacs'?"

"I might have. I've bought some champagne, too. Do you want a glass before I'm done cooking?"

"I'll serve myself," Martín murmurs. He hesitates only briefly before pressing a lingering kiss to the side of Andrés' lips, making him close his eyes for a second, clearly content.

He makes his way to the fridge then - an old, beaten down thing - and places the tart inside, taking the bottle of champagne instead.

He opens it with a loud pop and grins at Andrés, pouring two glasses.

No words need to be exchanged as Andrés tastes everything he's prepared and makes sure the rice doesn't overcook, as Martín helps him out by mincing the coriander; the fresh, strong smell of it filling his nostrils, making his stomach growl.

Finally, they move all the food to the table, their little kitchen nearly turned into a restaurant.

"My," Martín says, looking over the feast displayed before him. "You're such a catch."

"I'm aware," Andrés says.

They start eating.

Despite the lack of candles, it still manages to be awkward, or at the very least that's how Martín feels about it. It's not even the first time they're sharing a fancy meal at home. Andrés likes to go bonkers on cooking from time to time, and even Sergio's absence is not _that_ jarring; he's missed some of their dinners before.

Martín hasn’t.

He's never eaten food like this before he met Andrés.

The two of them eating together and Andrés laughing at the way Martín's whole face gets red from the chili flakes, that's normal, nothing out of the ordinary.

But there's this unspoken thing. Their looks linger and they're both excited, maybe even nervous, because they both know where this is going.

When they're done, Martín puts the dishes in the sink. He even has half a mind to wash them, but then Andrés' arms are circling his waist and his mouth is pressing to the nape of his neck.

"I want you," he says, his voice low and hoarse.

Martín relaxes back into him, his knees a bit wobbly.

"I need to take a shower," he mumbles, although he would want nothing more than for Andrés to drag him into the bedroom and fuck him sensless right away.

"Do you have to? You smell good to me."

"I need to. I'll be quick."

Andrés hums and nuzzles the side of his face before letting him go.

Truth is, the shower is not necessary, but Martín wants to be _sure._ He wants to make sure that everything is perfect.

He goes to the bathroom and quickly jumps into the shower.

The hot water washes the tension away from his muscles and he turns his face towards the stream. On one hand, he wants to hurry, on the other-

He hasn't fucked up yet. Right now, he's warm and content and he knows that Andrés is waiting for him, that Andrés _wants_ him-

He's more nervous than he's ever been before sex.

For the first time in his life, he's not only thinking about himself. He wants Andrés to feel good. He wants him to feel comfortable and he doesn't want to burden him with anything-

Martín presses his body against the wall and reaches back to finger himself.

He starts with one finger and adds the second way too quickly for it to be pleasurable - it's not intended to be - but his cock still twitches, from the pain and from the idea of Andrés thrusting right in, all at once; of Andrés holding him down and taking his pleasure from him.

Martín strains his arm and scissors his fingers, and hisses; he's an idiot. He should've thought about a lubricant, since water is clearly insufficient.

He nearly slips and falls when Andrés knocks on the door.

"Martín?"

"What?"

He opens the door after having wrapped a towel around his middle. Andrés eyes him suspiciously, tilting his head to the side like a wild cat who's not sure if what he's looking at is food.

"What's taking you so long?"

Martín considers his options. He could lie and say that he'e been struggling with setting the proper water temperature.

"I was- getting myself ready for you."

By telling the truth, he's hoping for praise, for appreciation of his efforts, of his eagerness to be _good._

He certainly does not expect to be roughly grabbed by the arm and dragged into Andrés' room, and thrown over the bed.

For a moment, an awful, terrible moment, he feels cold and lonely, but then Andrés is all over him, pulling lightly at his damp hair to make him look up and meet his gaze.

Andrés is smiling a dangerous smile.

"You wanted to spare me any effort, didn't you?" he asks and finally, Martín breaks into a smile of his own. He nods.

"What a lovely, thoughtful darling you are. But you wanted to deprive me of seeing you squirm on my fingers. Maybe I should only fuck you with them?"

"No," Martín whines, shaking his head as much as he can with Andrés still gripping some of his hair. "No, I want-"

His voice catches on a gasp, because Andrés reaches down and cups Martín's groin through the towel, dick and balls both, with a steady, sure hand.

Martín is going to die.

Andrés leans down and his breath is hot and moist over Martín's ear.

"I need to practise, don't I? Sex requires technique."

His voice is a hoarse whisper and Martín digs his fingers into Andrés' arm, turning his head to kiss him.

It quickly turns into a messy makeout session, with Andrés' weight pinning Martín to the mattress, his hand rubbing him to full hardness.

" _Fuck_ ," Martín groans. "No- wait, we need- we need lube."

He's nearly panting into Andrés' mouth. Andrés pulls away a little to look at him; his lips have been kissed red, his cheeks are flushed a bright pink, his eyes are brimming, pupils dilated.

He's beautiful.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Okay. Where is it?"

"Ugh," Martín says, bright and eloquent. "In my room."

Andrés grins and presses a kiss to his lips, then slides off the bed gracefully and walks out of the room, leaving Martín alone for a moment, which usually isn't the best idea.

Martín refuses to freak out, though. _He_ is the experienced one in this situation. He runs a hand through his hair and sits up, pulling the towel entirely off his body to fold it up and put it away.

Normally, Martín is not shy. When he was hooking up with Mirko, he would parade around the guy's apartment with his dick out, no problem.

But again, this is a new experience for Andrés. Martín doesn't want to- overwhelm him, to scare him away, to-

Okay, maybe he is freaking out a little bit.

He pulls the cover over his body.

Andrés walks back in a second later, brandishing a bottle of lubricant, and his eyes go comically wide.

"Have you changed your mind?" he asks.

Martín eyes the bulge in his pants.

"No."

Andrés smirks, stepping closer and climbing back onto the bed, pulling the covers back and straddling Martín's waist. He drops the bottle of lube next to them and puts his hands on Martín's naked chest, framing his pecks.

Martín considers his options. He figures that Andrés still looks sure about this; enthusiastic, even.

He touches his thighs, his hips; finally, he sneaks his hands under the hem of Andrés' t-shirt, feeling the burning hot skin beneath.

Andrés seems very satisfied with this, because he quickly discards his t-shirt; as he's pulling the fabric over his head, Martín gets to look at his stomach and chest, the muscles moving beautifully underneath the skin.

He's dying to touch.

Andrés lets him, leaning forward a little, grinning down as Martín slides his hands up, trying to learn Andrés' body, _studying_ it.

"I almost forgot," Andrés breathes then.

He straightens back up and fishes something out of the pocket of his pants. Condoms, Martín realizes.

"Do I have to put one on?"

He's impertinent, and Martín loves him for it.

"You didn't seem worried about that when you were putting your dick in my mouth."

Andrés laughs, a melodious, lovely sound.

Martín reaches out and takes the condoms out of his hand. He puts them on the nightstand.

"I take it you've been wearing those with all those ladies of yours?"

"Of course. Have you? With all those brutes that you've allowed to touch you?"

Martín shivers at those words, at the jealousy and possessiveness in them. They make him feel warm all over, the knowledge that Andrés regrets not having Martín to himself all that time.

"Yes," he breathes, putting his hands on Andrés' wrists, not stroking, but keeping the contact. "So we don't need it now, I think."

"Good," Andrés whispers, and he leans down for a kiss. It's a special one; Andrés' teeth graze over Martín's bottom lip, rough and sharp and dangerous, but when they bite down and pull, the pressure is delicate, careful, barely-there.

Andrés' hands are on him again, thumbs rubbing at his nipples, and how does Andrés _dare_ to be so good- oh, alright, yes, women have nipples. It's not like Andrés is a total virgin.

Neither is Martín, obviously, he's sucked more dicks than he would like to admit (some dicks were undeserving of being sucked, as it turned out), but-

There's this one thing-

"Andr- Andrés. _Andrés._ "

"Mm..."

"I don't fuck with the light on."

Andrés stops nibbling at his jaw and instead stares at him as if Martín had spontaneously grown a second head.

"What do you mean, you don't fuck with the light on? What kind of a rule is that?"

Martín has a hard time focusing, what with Andrés looking like a sex god, eyes dark and piercing.

"... I don't like being looked at. Not when I'm-..."

"Naked?"

"Vulnerable."

Andrés huffs, but he doesn’t roll his eyes. Instead, it seems like he’s considering Martín’s words for a moment.

Finally, he gets to his feet and goes to flip off the light switch.

The room is instantly flooded with darkness, thick, comforting, _familiar._ Martín feels himself relax right away, reaching out for Andrés when he comes back to the bed, this time sitting on the edge of it. Andrés leans down and goes back to kissing his neck, his lips warm and cheeks smooth, although frankly, Martín wouldn’t mind-... Not a beard, no, but a slight stubble-...

He’s had the privilege of seeing Andrés like that. In the morning, unshaven, after a long night or even two in a row, the hairs on his chin and cheeks barely poking out of the skin, giving it just a bit of shade. Oh, how he had wished back then to be able to feel it against his own body.

Even just against his hand.

Just against his fingertips.

Martín sighs, dreamy, but then he's pulled back into reality when he hears a click and the darkness under his eyelids becomes somewhat of a warm brown.

He opens his eyes to see that Andrés has turned on the lamp on the nightstand. It doesn't give much of a hard light, more like an orange glow, but Martín still frowns.

"Stop pouting," Andrés says, leaning comfortably against Martín's propped up leg. "Am I not special to you?"

What an asshole.

Before he can muster up a comment, Andrés kisses him again. He gives a true acrobatics show as he pulls down the covers and - without breaking the kiss - moves to lie in-between Martín’s legs. Pressing his body right against his cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Martín hisses, arching up and into Andrés, who suddenly seems much more serious than a moment ago.

“Enough with the foreplay, don’t you think? I can feel how hard you are for me. I want all of you and I want it now. Come on, up.”

It takes a bit of fumbling - Andrés pulls away and sits back on his heels while Martín miraculously doesn’t fall off the bed in his haste to sit up.

The covers fall to the floor.

Martín is not sure what Andrés wants at first, but then it all becomes clear when Andrés pulls him into his lap, makes him straddle his thighs, makes him so- visible, all of a sudden, so much so that Martín wraps his arms around Andrés’ neck, holding onto him to get back some composure.

Of course Andrés wants to start off the way it worked the last time - he knows how to touch Martín in this position.

The bottle cap pops and a few seconds later, Andrés has one arm wrapped around Martín’s waist while his other hand reaches down, fingers stroking right over his hole.

Martín has had many things done to him, but somehow _this_ feels the most erotic.

“Wonderful,” Andrés whispers.

 _What kind of a compliment is that,_ Martín nearly says, but then there are two - two already - fingers pressing right into him, and he groans and throws his head back and _whines._

He’s already stretched himself out a bit and now, with the lube and Andrés’ insistent touch, it’s so much better. The initial shock wears down quickly and within a moment, Martín is feeling comfortable, fucking himself back onto Andrés’ fingers.

He doesn’t even try to angle for them to press against his prostate, he’s satisfied with the fullness, the mere fact that Andrès is there, that he’s so close and so hot, that Martín can feel some sweat on his skin, indicating that Andrés must be feeling warm all over, too.

“Another one.”

He’s so desperate that his tone sounds- commanding.

Andrés chuckles at that.

“My, aren’t you needy,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, crackling like wood on fire.

The third finger pushes in and Martín spreads his legs more, not even worrying about the fact that the dim light is on, that Andrés can see how eager he is.

A part of him that's becoming louder and louder _wants_ Andrés to see exactly that.

The exposure is becoming less scary and more exciting because Andrés is still so close, he's not pulling away, he's holding Martín and looking for even more contact, nuzzling his neck, pressing kisses against his throat.

"Okay," Martín whispers after a moment, squeezing Andrés' shoulders. "Okay, just- Can I-...?"

Andrés takes his hands away and leans back, a wide, wild grin on his face as Martín runs his hands down his chest until they rest on the hem of Andrés' pants.

"Of course you can."

Andrés seems cheeky, happy with the state he's already put Martín in, but he can't hold back a groan when Martín finally tugs down the fly of his pants and pulls his hard, leaking cock out of his briefs.

Martín gives it two strokes to relieve some of the pressure - he's caring like that - before looking around and spotting the bottle of lube that he then grabs and opens to pour some of the substance onto his hand.

He tries not to be too much of a tease and this time, he doesn't get his mouth on the beautiful dick in his hand. Andrés seemed to have liked the previous blowjobs and Martín would gladly swallow him down again, see if he can take him in deeper this time, let Andrés push in and out of his mouth.

However, Martín is no idiot. He wants Andrés to fuck him. He _needs_ Andrés to fuck him. To have this with him.

Finally - _finally_ \- he positions himself over Andrés and carefully reaches back to guide his cock inside. He looks at Andrés, trying to make sure if this is really what he wants, if there's no doubt.

Andrés puts his hands on Martín's hips and presses down ever so slightly, urging him to sink down.

Martín does.

Slowly, with a loud groan, with a shudder running down his spine.

Andrés groans, too; more like growls, actually, burrowing his face against Martín's chest, wrapping both arms around his waist.

For a moment, they hold onto each other.

Then, one of Andrés' hands slides down, to the small of Martín's back.

"Move," he says in a low voice.

Martín raises his hips, gasping at the feeling of Andrés' cock stretching him out, a tight fit despite the preparation.

He doesn't really ride him, he just moves slowly, deliberately, almost drowning in sensations.

Andrés' eyes are like burning coal, staring up at him, intense and so, so beautiful.

That gaze makes Martín weak.

"Fuck me," he begs quietly, thighs shaking a bit where they're framing Andrés' body. "Come on. However you want it."

Andrés shifts forward; they're not perfectly in tune yet, so Martín lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, whining when Andrés' dick slides out of him.

Andrés strokes his leg.

"Shh," he murmurs. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

He drapes himself all over Martín, who has no choice but to grin, putting his hands on Andrés' arms.

"It doesn't. It feels fucking awesome."

Andrés smirks at that.

“Lift your hips up, then.”

Martín, of course, complies. Andrés nudges himself closer, until he can position his cock at Martín’s entrance again. The head nudges against it and Martín digs his fingernails into Andrés’ skin.

With a snap of his hips, Andrés pushes in, all the way in; this time, they both groan out loud, their foreheads bumping together.

“You’re so tight,” Andrés says, eyes closed, brows furrowed. “So hot, you have no idea. So good to me. You’re going to be just perfect and take it like a little whore, won’t you?”

It should sound so wrong, Andrés talking to him like that, the absolute filth spilling from such pretty lips. It should sound so wrong with all the time they’ve spent together, all the moments they shared as friends, always friends, comfortable, casual, pals, buddies, besties, whatever you want to fucking name it.

Soulmates.

It doesn’t sound wrong. It sounds impossibly, wonderfully thrilling.

“Yes,” Martín hisses. “Yes, plea- _ahhh_!”

Andrés starts moving. He’s not yet pounding into him, but his thrusts are hard, they feel heavy and forceful, and Martín scratches down his arms before he has any chance to think about what he’s doing; he’s acting on instinct, throwing his head back but moving it immediately to the side so that he can _look_ , so that he can see the strain and lust all over Andrés’ features.

There’s a sharp pain in his scalp when Andrés grabs a fistful of his hair and Martín is fucking _surprised_ at how rough he’s being, but it’s a nice surprise, because of course he knew Andrés could be like that, untamed and ruthless, but he wasn’t sure if this-

If Andrés would let go like that-

It’s a perfect mixture of lust and care, because as it turns out, Andrés grabbed his hair not just for the fun of it - again, no complaints - but because he wanted to angle Martín’s head, because now Andrés is kissing him, messy and feverish, while moving faster and faster.

He hits against Martín’s prostate and Martín very nearly _screams._

Andrés pins his shoulders down, putting his weight to it, and Martín feels like he’s being used, like he’s just a tool for Andrés’ pleasure. It feels wonderful.

It makes him forget all about the hurt, the _fucking stress_ of the past few days.

His face feels hot all over, his legs feel numb, he keeps letting out moans and whines with every thrust of Andrés’ hips, his cock so hard where it’s pushing into him, again and again and again-

“ _Andrés-_ ” he manages, not saying anything more, not wanting to. It’s enough.

It’s the only thing on his mind.

That, and the fact that Andrés isn’t quiet either, panting and groaning, raspy sounds tearing themselves out of his throat. Martín has never- he’s never seen him like that, he’s never _heard_ him, not like that, with hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead, with face flushed a deep shade of red, mouth open and eyes glazed over.

He has no idea what it is that makes him come. A harder thrust, a heated look, a sound deeper than others- either way, Martín’s cock jerks against his stomach, the come hot and thick, waves of pleasure slow and overwhelming as his voice cracks over a cry, tears dripping down his face.

Andrés is mouthing at his neck, still rocking into him, although his movements are less controlled now, his breathing fast.

Martín nearly mewls when Andrés brushes against his prostate again, it’s too much and it’s starting to hurt-

But then, Andrés grips him tighter and his thrusts falter, hips twitching on their own accord as he comes, still buried deep inside.

It feels good. Fucking _heavenly._

Martín thinks it feels like being owned, although he won’t say that out loud, not yet.

For a moment, he listens to Andrés. He counts his breaths. He feels his heartbeat against his chest.

Andrés hums against his neck. He presses a lazy kiss there. He leans back a little.

"Wait, wait-..!"

He pulls out his cock, _suddenly._

" _Fuuuuuuck_ ," Martín whines, shuddering. "Fuck, shit, _no,_ Andrés, that's a no!"

"Oops," Andrés says, his lopsided grin apologetic. "I'll keep it in mind, next time."

With that, he gives Martín a short kiss on the lips, the kind that could easily melt ice.

Then, he straightens up and looks down again.

"It's leaking out of you," he says, amusement mixed with curiosity. "I like the view."

Martín stares at him, too tired to move.

"You do?"

"Very much so."

Martín never thought he would be so- shameless, in front of Andrés. Although Andrés' gaze is making his skin tingle, he doesn't feel like running to dress himself, he doesn't feel like leaving the bed. The sweat, the come, the lube, all of it should feel disgusting.

It doesn't.

"We'll take a shower," Andrés purrs, lying back down, on top of Martín, head nestled in the crook of his neck. "Later, though."

Their limbs are tangled together, the air in the room is still hot, the light from the lamp has a soothing, orange tint and Martín's eyelids are getting heavy.

"Mm," he nods, letting his eyes close, sinking further into the pillow behind his head; focusing on the way Andrés' body feels against his own.

They fuck again the very same night and Andrés lets Martín know he'd gladly explore different positions, preferably soon, and _what about toys, Martín, have you tried any?_

He's making Martín's head spin.

A good dicking down is not easy to come by. Martín has had a few really good hook-ups, one or two with men who were older, experienced, one could even say- well-trained in the art of fucking someone into oblivion.

But none of them mattered.

Because none of them were Andrés.

Andrés, who makes breakfast in the morning, wearing nothing but briefs and an apron, while Martín makes coffee and allows himself to stare, just for a bit.

He lets himself believe that maybe, he'll be seeing that more often

He’s the luckiest bastard on the planet.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you dashwood for beta-reading and helping me make this better!!!


End file.
